


When the (East) Wind Blows

by mycapeisplaid



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Season/Series 03, Unrequited Love, fucking sad, goodbyes suck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:19:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycapeisplaid/pseuds/mycapeisplaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wary.  That’s the look in his eyes as we stand foolishly, unable to say anything worth saying.  So very wary. We always have been rather poor at discussing our feelings for each other, after all.  Why should anything change now?</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the (East) Wind Blows

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry. I had some feels.
> 
> Thanks to my friend BettySwallocks for looking at this a bit before I posted it up. Wrote it today in under an hour. I usually let things stew for weeks before posting; not this one.

Wary. That’s the look in his eyes as we stand foolishly, unable to say anything worth saying. So very wary. We always have been rather poor at discussing our feelings for each other, after all. Why should anything change now?

The words are there, right on my tongue. The way I feel for him, the way I’ve always felt, but now it’s defined, I suddenly have the language to describe it. I love him. I have always loved him, my best friend, my only friend. That’s nothing new. But these past six months have been one long torturous exercise of repressing my desire for it to be more. To know him in all ways. And now? Well, now it never will be, and I have only myself to blame.

John hasn’t shaved. He hasn’t slept properly. He’s guarded. He’s still angry with me, but he’s also grateful that the spectre of Magnussen's mind can no longer haunt his precious Mary. I miscalculated, horribly. Magnussen's mind palace was far more extensive than my own. I’m going to have to completely restructure it now. Reinforce the walls. We’re always building and rebuilding, John and I, each in our own way. Looking at him now, I can see what he’s done. His heart, usually carried in front of him on a crimson banner, is now locked in a steel vault. 

John is loyal, I’ll give him that. I can’t fault him for forgiving her. He forgave me, after all, for making him think I’d died. I can never give him a child, and while I have required his strange brand of parenting at times, I have never been able to completely let myself go, completely depend on him, as an infant does a father. John likes to feel needed; John needs to feel loved. But right now, at this very moment, John feels...nothing. Absolutely nothing. 

I can feel their eyes upon my back, Mary’s and my brother’s. Mycroft knows. He always has, even before I did, probably on the first night he met John. He’s smirking, or, even worse, frowning in that way of his about how things just couldn’t have worked out. What a mess you’ve made, Sherlock. Look what love has brought you: the safety of the man you love, the wife who put a hole in your chest, and the certainty of your imminent demise. 

All I have to do now is open my mouth (not generally a problem) and let the words come out. But I can’t. Not with him looking like that, not with Mary standing there, my brother. I should have told him the night I worked it out, when I met John in Leinster Gardens, and he raged against me, refusing to believe what I had told him about the woman I’d let him marry. He trusted me, though, God knows why, and sagged against the concrete. It was cold, he was cold, I was wracked with pain, and in that cramped space, I should have told him.

I should have told him the night I got back, the night I walked into the restaurant at the Landmark Hotel, and saw him with that horrible moustache, planning to propose. Fairly certain I knew then. That I loved him, that I wanted him, and not just for companionship. The stag night was a disaster. I remember just wanting to melt into his arms, wanting to give him a reason to call off the wedding. Might have considered ‘accidentally’ texting Mary that there was an emergency at 221B and her assistance was required immediately. Whoops. Might have said some things I shouldn’t have then; I don’t remember. We’ve spent the night together in more uncomfortable situations, John and I. Some of those surveillances may have been a blatant ploy for me to spend more time with him, just the two of us, running on coffee and adrenaline and, in our own way, love.

Instead, I say my name. No one has ever called me “William” in my life. But it seems important now, critical even, that John knows it. He will never know the taste of my lips, not now, but he can have those six syllables. As much of me as he can ever have. I find it horribly ironic that he now knows my name, but not his wife’s. 

John says the game is over. No, not that. It’s on, it’s always on. There’s still something about Mary, whom, even in these circumstances, I cannot bring myself to dislike. Magnussen said she’s done horrible things. I don’t doubt it. She’s lied. She’s killed people. She even killed me, for a moment or two. But who am I to talk. I’ve done exactly the same.

I made a vow. It may be the only unselfish thing I’ve ever done. Well, no. There’s this whole shooting an unarmed but horrible man and, in lieu of a prison sentence, being forced to undertake a task that will likely result in my imminent death thing. So. Two unselfish things. For John. The man I love. I made a vow, and I’ll keep it. Those words, those words I want to say so badly, will have to stay with me. Will keep me company on cold nights, when the east wind blows. It has come for me, for I am unworthy of this man, my most loyal companion, wearer of bad jumpers and teller of bad jokes. My compass, my sword, my shield, my heart. 

I trust, in time, he will forgive me for exposing Mary, for letting him spend two years grieving me. I didn’t know then how much it would affect him, I really didn’t. I know better now.

There isn’t much to say, except the obvious. It doesn’t come out. Humour is substituted for emotion; he smiles. A horrible fake expression that I abhor even more than the moustache. No, no child of John’s will bear my name. Oh, this is ridiculous. I don’t really care about names for a baby that hasn’t even been born yet. I want to step into his space, crush him to me. Hold him until he sags in my arms, tells me how dreadful I am, and then hugs me back. But she’d see. She probably knows already. Perhaps they’ve already discussed it. And John? He’s just too angry. The vault is staying shut, its combination too complex even for me to decipher. Pretty impressive defences, really. I should know.

The words are swallowed. I won’t end it like this, with a confession. I wouldn’t do that to John Watson, not now, in our last moment together. For his sake. His way. Always.

To the best of times, then, instead. To the grit of London, to laughter in the rain, to greasy chips, to petty rows, to unhygienic bathrooms, to inappropriate laughter, to wool and blood and tea. To friendship. To love.

He stares at my hand, stripped of its glove. For a moment, I wonder if he’s going to reject even this small contact. Or will he step forward, embrace me? It’s now or never, John...

He clasps my hand but does not linger. Like when we met outside Baker Street the first time, his smaller hand fitting into mine perfectly. Hello. Goodbye.

This is the second time I’ve said farewell to John Watson. Once was enough for one lifetime.

On the plane, Mycroft’s man insists I fasten my seat belt. Completely pointless. My life is out there, where John is holding Mary’s hand as if she’s the one who needs comforting. 

Takeoff. The plane climbs. Through the tiny window, Mary’s coat is a dab of blood. I watch them get smaller. I will not let myself cry. The backs of my eyes ache. My fingers are freezing cold where John touched them. Shaking my hand goodbye like a departing business colleague. 

Perhaps, in a decade or so, he’ll tell his daughter about the nutter he worked with for a while, in his bachelor days. I hope he smiles the proper smile, the one he used to use when I’d been Good. I hope he teaches his daughter to observe, and not just to see. 

It’s so bitter here where the east wind blows. I don’t think I will ever feel warm again. 

I close my eyes.

Down the corridor, a dog barks.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [When the (East) Wind Blows](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2554559) by [SN_Blaugrana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SN_Blaugrana/pseuds/SN_Blaugrana)




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